


Minutes to Apocalypse

by LyraNgalia



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Gen, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-06
Updated: 2012-12-06
Packaged: 2017-11-20 10:50:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/584585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LyraNgalia/pseuds/LyraNgalia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Irene Adler spent hours in 221B Baker Street. Who was to say she didn't engage in a little subtle misbehavior?</p><p>A missing scene fic from <i>Scandal In Belgravia</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Minutes to Apocalypse

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the lovely [socrappyicoulddie](http://socrappyicoulddie.tumblr.com/) over on Tumblr. This didn't come out exactly as I had expected, but I hope you enjoy it all the same.

Irene could tell by the way John Watson's attention continually drifted over to her, no matter where in the overstuffed flat she stood, that he wanted something. The fact that he didn't ask only amused her more. Meanwhile, Sherlock Holmes remained in his chair, having not moved in the last... two hours, and muttered occasionally.

 

“Does he always do this?” she asked John, waving a negligent hand at Sherlock as she rose from the couch.

 

“Sit there not talking? Almost as much as he won't shut up. Doesn't notice half the time when no one's in the flat, sometimes he'll have whole conversations and not realize I've been in Dorset all day,” came the answer as John's eyes followed her unconsciously. “Are you ever going to change back into your own clothes?”

 

The blue dressing gown's hem swung around her bare ankles as she headed into the laboratory turned biology experiment that was 221B Baker Street's kitchen, and Irene asked over her shoulder, “At some point. Are you bothered, Dr. Watson?” She heard his frustrated exhale and began opening cabinets and drawers in the crowded kitchen, a smirk on her lips. There was a jar of something that seemed to have once been an animal floating in a jar of formaldehyde tucked among the plates, but Irene merely ignored it. “Do you really not keep even tea in this flat?” she asked. “I know _you_ get hungry.”

 

John sounded even more put out. “You could go out and get it yourself,” he pointed out.

 

Irene turned on the ball of her foot, dark, damp hair swinging like a curtain at the move, and faced him. “Killers, remember? You could at least pretend to be a gentleman.”

 

He scoffed. “And leave you here? In this flat? Doubt there'd be anything _left_ if I did that.”

 

She arched a very skeptical eyebrow at John, and gestures towards where Sherlock remained sitting, muttering something to himself. “Do you really think if I moved _anything_ he wouldn't notice afterward? And it's not like I can _go_ anywhere at the moment. Killers.” She didn't say more, though by the way John glanced over at his flatmate, she could tell he's relenting in the tiny shifts of muscle, in the ebb of tension. He eyed her again, still distrustful, but she could tell her words have sunk in, that he's remembering that in fact they _don't_ have food and now that she mentions it he will be hungry soon and...

 

“Fine. But don't think I'm going out for tea just because you demanded it.”

 

Irene said nothing, her expression carefully blank though the way his mouth pulls down in a frown she could tell he saw something else in her expression. Some arch amusement or manipulative smile. And who was to say it wasn't really there? “Thank you, Dr. Watson.”

 

He grumbled, and got his coat. Irene waited until she heard the front door slam shut before she walked back into the sitting room. She'd sent Jim the text about Heathrow hours ago. No doubt the consulting criminal would have gotten in touch with the elder Holmes by now. Which would mean an hour or two, maybe less, until she got exactly what she wanted. With a second glance back at Sherlock, still lost in his own mind, Irene began rearranging objects in a subtle but precise pattern.

_\- .. .-.. .-.. / - .... . / -. . -..- - / - .. -- . --..-- / -- .-. / .... --- .-.. -- . ..._


End file.
